


Nightmares of Losing You

by SkywardGeek



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, 221B Ficlet, AU No Mary, Additional Warnings Apply, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Ficlet, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Nightmare!John, Nightmare!Sherlock, Nightmares, One Shot, Post Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 16:50:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1435720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkywardGeek/pseuds/SkywardGeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm yelling, I'm calling<br/>Sherlock is falling<br/>I'm pleading, I'm crying<br/>Sherlock is dying.</p><p>Rated Mature for suicidal thoughts</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmares of Losing You

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning - Contains suicidal thoughts, some graphic detail of the Fall
> 
> First Fanfiction (that I had the guts to upload) - Constructive criticism is appreciated, or just general thoughts (rip it to shreds if you like, but please let me know how to improve).
> 
> Thanks for reading.

 

 

I’m yelling, I’m calling  
Sherlock is falling  
I’m pleading, I’m crying  
Sherlock is dying.

 

 

**Nightmares of Losing You**

The silence of the street. No one was around. Just a man on a roof and a man stuck below. The black coat billowed in the wind.  
“Goodbye John.”  
The words kept repeating, the last words. Then a fall. Slow. Agonising. Watching his best friend being taken from his life by cold, hard concrete. His voice resonated in the silent street. Yelling, calling out for his best friend. Please god let him live. Please someone save him. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he was jostled away by faceless bodies.  
“He’s my friend, please.”  
Invisible arms held him back. The blood, the sickening smell of blood. The body, barely cold. The pulse gone. Then it started all over again, vivid as reality. A constant loop, a desperate attempt to change what happened. He was back on the rooftop. Convince him on the phone, or make it in time. Anything to stop that step off the ledge. Then he took a step.  
“SHERLOCK”

Screaming. Piercing screaming. He never sounded like this before. Sherlock could hear the sound of John thrashing about in bed, then a muffled thud. It sounded like John had toppled himself out of bed in his frenzy. Sherlock knew it was a bad idea to try and speak to him about the war nightmares, even before the fall he would clam up about them. But there was never any screaming. Before Sherlock could just tell: the dark smudges under the eyes; rapid breathing; high pulse rate; eyes darting towards exits; and his tremor returned temporarily; but never screaming. The screaming started again, shattering the silence of the night. A panicked Sherlock ran to John’s bedroom door and pushed it open slowly. John was sat shivering on the floor, eyes open, alert, but unseeing. The screams clearer now, yelling out.  
“SHERLOCK”  
The scream echoed the one yelled all those years ago at Bart’s.  
“Shhh John I’m here, I’m right here.”  
John didn’t look up as Sherlock entered the room, completely oblivious to his surroundings. He was trapped inside his own head, trapped inside the dream. Sherlock moved closer and sat on the edge of the bed, unsure of himself and how to help. All he could do was whisper words of reassurance.  
“John, I’m here. I’m right here, look at me John. See.”  
John started, stretching out a hand as though to touch Sherlock, prove his existence, but he let his hand fall limply to his side, eyes glazed over.  
“I think you should go…”  
The voice was barely more than a whisper, but at once Sherlock got up although hesitantly. He didn’t want to leave but he respected John and left him for the night.

Only half an hour later the screaming started again. The voice clearly rang out throughout the flat this time.  
“SHERLOCK”  
Sherlock was on his feet once more, running up the stairs to John’s room. He flung open the door and froze. John was sat there, back against the wall, pistol to the roof of his mouth.  
“John, don’t. No, I am right here.”  
The pistol was removed only long enough for John to utter a jumble of garbled words.  
“I can’t do this. Sherlock is gone, you are a dream, a hallucination, a memory. He jumped. I saw him jump. Heard the sickening thud of the body, heard it over and over. He isn’t coming back… I can’t change it, I can’t bring him back. But I can go to him. I should have realised sooner. The pain would have stopped so much sooner.”  
Sherlock moved before he realised, with long strides he crossed the room with ease. Grabbing the pistol from John, hands shaking, he skidded the gun across the floor. Under a dresser out of sight. Sherlock, hands still quivering, pulled John into an embrace.  
“John, I am back. This is me. I’m so sorry, so so sorry. I shouldn’t have left. Thank you for keeping going, for waiting for me and for believing in me. I’m so sorry. Sorry for all the pain I caused you. I wish I had never left. But I am here now, I’ll make it up to you.”  
Sherlock’s voice was pleading, never stopping for breath. But now it became tinged with anger.  
“Don’t ever do that again. EVER. You can’t leave me. John, say something. John answer me.”  
John’s hands moved now, feeling the man’s tight grip around him. His hands reached up, stroking the arms, caressing the face, testing to see if his trembling hands went through. His voice barely more than a whisper.  
“You’re real? You are alive. I’m not dreaming now am I? Please be real. Are you? Are you real? I’m dreaming still. You can’t have come back. Bizarre dreams about French waiters and bloody noses in cafes. Were they dreams? You aren’t a memory? Are you reality?”  
“I’m real John, I’m here now. I’ll always be here.”  
John’s hands gripped Sherlock tightly, fingers twisted in the material of his pyjamas. He looked into Sherlock’s blue-grey eyes, the glaze of terror and sleep broken.  
“You are real.”  
He pulled Sherlock’s face towards him, planting a soft kiss on the detective’s lips. Sherlock’s eyes opened wide in surprise before he relaxed with how natural it felt. Eyes closing he kissed back, a pleasant mix of firm but gentle and tender. It was reassuring. Sherlock was the first to break it, John leaning, pressing into him, longing to feel closer and be convinced of Sherlock’s existence. But Sherlock pulled away too soon.  
“John, you need to sleep. I’ll be back in the morning.”  
“Please stay until I fall asleep. Please.”  
The voice was so pleading that Sherlock caved. He settled on the edge of the bed after John climbed in himself. John’s eyes closed quickly and breathing steadied. His chest rose and fell rhythmically. He looked peaceful, more at ease than he had in months, possibly years. Sherlock’s eyes felt heavy, and soon he settled into sleep himself.

The night replayed. Sherlock ran to John’s room. But this time it was too late. He flung open the door just as John pulled the trigger. Too late, too slow, too long. He’d been gone too long. Watching his best friend being taken from his life by cold, hard metal. The bang, the blast, jerked Sherlock awake. Terror followed him from the nightmare as Sherlock struggled to regain his senses. Covered in cold sweat, Sherlock groped around next to him. He needed confirmation, that the dream was just a dream. His hand reached out and found the comforting warmth of John Watson’s fingers. He intertwined them and held tight, anchoring him to reality.  
“I’m lost without my blogger.”  
A sleepy whisper returned his panicked declaration.  
“I’m lost without my detective.”


End file.
